A Taste from; The Many Unnatural Lives of Scott Solomon Dean

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“We serial killers are your sons, we are your husbands, we are everywhere. And there will be more of your children dead tomorrow.”
Ted Bundy



    “There are real monsters in this life but they are not out there in the darkness somewhere just out of eyesight. The real monsters are sitting right next to you smiling and laughing the whole time they are thinking on how many ways they wish to kill you. The real monsters are entwined in the society of humanity since the dawn of time.”
Raven Blackstone



    “I knew there was something odd with me when I was a small child. Other kids would not have nothing to do with me. It would come to me in just a short few years that I thought I had a monster within me. Then at true revelation struck me, damn, I’m the demon within. I accepted, embraced, and loved my bloodthirsty insatiable appetites upon all I would cross without care or reason.”
Brandon “The Worm” Reed



    “I lost my virginity while inside a woman and then immediately starting killing her. As I was doing so, I realized there are far greater pleasures than sex could ever offer me. I simply followed my strong urges. I became a god over who lives and who dies.”
Johnathan Knepp



Introduction

Standing upon Mount Moriah are two men, both wearing their white hard hats and their matching Corp of Engineers shirts. The oldest in silver hair and sharp blue eyes is rolling up the overall plans of a major project. Behind them a small surveying crew doing their work just out of earshot of the two.
    

“So, you’re on board with the plan or what?” The older said snidely.
    

The younger man looking rather pale from this immoral plan. “Yeah, you actually want me to go with that? You want to only move the headstones and leave the rotted bones right where they’re at?”
    

The older man turned to face the younger, “Listen slick, it isn’t like your goddamned grandmother is among the dead buried down there with all the other whores. Mount Moriah Cemetery is just some fucking forgotten place in the annals of local history, superstition, and any other redneck beliefs. The goddamned rotting bodies stay right where they’re at and we’ll move the stones to the new location.”

The older man paused only for a second. “If you can’t be a part of this, then you’re off the team. Besides, you like being married to my daughter, don’t you?” It is nothing less than a viable threat.


“Frenchy, what are you gonna do, take my wife way from me if I don’t agree to this unspeakable bullshit of yours?”
    

“Taking away? No, I was thinking more along the lines of her being a widow. Accidents happen all the fucking time, Bob.  This is a huge project, you may find yourself prone to one such fatality or something.” Frenchy paused with a determined grin froth with rage painted upon his otherwise, white face.

“Look, I brought you on so that it would help you both financially and making a goddamned man out of you. This would be the first big project you have ever been on. I won’t allow you to fuck things up here – too much riding on this – too much money to be had wasting it on bullshit. The getting is good, so for god sakes, pull your head out of your ass and join the team or you can be lying face down with those there at Mount Moriah Cemetery in an unmarked grave all covered by three feet of crushed rock and gravel with another two feet of reinforced concrete. Go along with my plans or simply be a result of an accident. Hell, I’ll even dig the grave with the traditional six feet of earth for you Bob. Now how would that be?” Frenchy’s eyes looked like two slits of rage.
    

“So, what’s it gonna be, Bob? I don’t have all fucking day goddamn it. Make up your mind now you fucking cocksucker.”
    

Bob Weber browbeat and threatened by his own father-in-law wiped the sweat off of his own brow with his white handkerchief. “Okay, all right, I’m in.” Bob looked up to his father-in-law shaking his head affirmatively.
    

“Well alright then…” Frenchy then put his hand on Weber’s shoulder and whispered in Bob’s ear. “And if I catch your prick in another woman or that boyfriend of yours, I’ll kill you myself and I’ll put your body down a hole that no one shall ever find – not even God could find you.”
    

Weber stunned in the realization that Frenchy is already well aware of his two affairs also shook his head affirmatively in both overwhelming shame and wonderment.
    

“Good then, I won’t have to bury them next to your grave down there where the new outer parking lot will be,” Frenchy smiled ever so coldly as he removed his firm grip on Weber’s shoulder.
    

“Fly right, son, and we’ll both be fucking rich. You’ll see.” Frenchy turned away and walked up to his white air-conditioned pickup truck then driving away from the scene.  

Weber watched him go and realizing that no matter what and how he personally felt, his father-in-law had him under Frenchy’s thumb, and there would be no way of getting out from under it.

Then like a bolt of lightning, a though entered his mind, “Accidents happen all the time on major worksites. My fucking father-in-law could easily be an accidental casualty.” A smile broke across Weber’s face.

The massive construction of the Whispering Pines Sanitarium with its own super-max facility will begin shortly after the transfer of the headstones and all things above ground belonging to the Mount Moriah Cemetery. These opportunities will afford Weber the chance to not only get out from under Frenchy’s thumb, but to shatter it completely.


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Good evening, good afternoon, and or good “mourning” to all who follow this unique blog of horrors and grim eye-candy. I know it may have been a while since I wrote anything like, “The Sheriff” who finds himself confronted by a possible werewolf of unknown origin responsible for at least one immediate death of a loved one. One might say it’s a short story, a prelude, a sample of things to come.

Oh, yes indeed. Things are changing on DarcWorX. One of the major changes is the fact that I listen to my fans and friends. In doing so, I will not be publishing any more eBooks but instead I will be offering traditional paperbacks through Amazon Publishing and like the former eBooks, these new editions will be sold Internationally. I have taken down, “The Haunted Library” from the damp and mysterious corridors of this blogsite only temporarily. Everything else remains the same but only better. In the past, organizations along with fans demanded the paperback version of what I write. This I am going to do. Naturally, I need your help, your financial donations made possible through PayPal. This is also set up for the International Audience on a very secure and familiar service that everyone already knows.

I promise you with funding, my little “Darc” world will greatly expand in both marketing and in advertising costs.

You as an avid fan and reader has certainly experienced my personal growth in writing and in the “Darc” arts. There are many stories, short stories within this blog to easily convince you that I am indeed gifted as a writer and in graphics design. I don’t say these things lightly. I don’t say these things first hand. These positive things are said by tens of thousands of fans world-wide.

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DarcWorX nor do I ask for much. Any donation of any amount will go to what I have mentioned plus expedite the publishing of the paperbacks that will be made available only on Amazon throughout the known world. Additional funding will also go on equipment and upkeep of my future home office.

Oh yes, as I stated time, and time again. Subscriptions to this blog are free for everyone. Now, I don’t keep email addresses, and WordPress assures me that they don’t SPAM or give your email addresses out. I never see them or have to deal with that and you should not have to worry about things like that too.

Let me bring you up to speed on some other things, or additional projects. Now, I want everyone to know that “Tales From Under the Concrete” in all three volumes of these eBooks will be, as they are, buried in a deep vault and shall never see the light of day again. Leastwise in the eBook fashion. I will no doubt create an updated and overpowering version of this ominous collection that included such grisly tales as, “Dead Indian,” “The Devil in Deadwood,” and so many others that touch upon various common elements and characters like, “The Whispering Pines Sanitarium,” “Raven Blackstone,” and for the “Werewolves of Deadwood,” most will agree that needs to be its own novel or a series of novels. There is just too much going on down at, “The Gallows,” and “The Busted Bitch Saloon.”

Deadwood amongst other things has its own history, gaming, adult entertainment, and more than enough paranormal activity to capture the minds and souls looking for such things. In fact, Lawrence County to include, Lead (pronounced as “Leed”) is an old gold mining town with stories of its own. For me, Lawrence County in its entirety has a lot that an over-active imagination can take in. It is a pleasure for me to write about what possibly can be called an otherwise “Raven State” that no one gives a second thought about with a grand total population of only 700,700 people with a 4 to 7% decline with the biggest export is our youth as they fly overhead.

Yeah, that saddens me some. Sure, but what are you going to do, right?

Hell

For me and my family, we chose to move out here after my exile at Pierre, South Dakota. I did my time in hell thank you very much. The prairie never done anything for me and nothing in sharp contrast to the Black Hills here. Plenty of great things to do and actually see. I am not a travel agency, but you can Google or Bing it all you want though.

As far as my life is concerned and according to Laura, Lawrence County has been the longest place I personally lived at. This is a personal record. I thought I might throw that in there too.

I would like to take this moment in time and thank the tens of thousands of folks who have come to read and take with them a little something in return. So, if you do find DarcWorX which is synonymous to me, Douglas S. Taylor. Well, I am certainly thankful for that too.

Don’t make yourself a stranger and when the time comes to release my next novel that I am working on between things, I will make sure you all will know about it and the “Haunted Library” page reinstated.

Thanks for your time, your donations, and your support.

Douglas S. Taylor

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The Sheriff

Sheriff

Today I find myself out checking the higher trails on my usual routine as the sun was at its zenith, in which says so little in these parts. One thing is the fact that the sun sits lower and rides along the hills, just above actually. Secondly, the sky, seems to be a storm, a bad winter’s storm brewing up in the north as the low-pressure front is just coming upon us.

Listen to me, I sound like a fucking weatherman. I crack myself up sometimes at the shit I say to be quite honest. The new snow, the heavy snow anticipated is the whole reason I am out here today and making, well, a full day of it. You see, world renowned snowboarders, skiers, and the likes will be swarming down from all over the world.
Even in the spite of the time of the season means very little up here. One could always say, “It’s so damned gloomy all the time…” They’d be right in saying that while they’re constantly bellyaching about their trivial shit.

Nevertheless, this portion of the Black Hills is a very secluded, and some might say, “With trails less traveled upon.” In that would be the truth. Though, once upon a damned time, this area all around me was bustling with active gold mining, a railroad, a small town just up the side of the eastern slope here that included a brothel and a school for all the whore’s children. Mining isn’t much of a family life, was it?

It isn’t much of a life period as history would tell us. That is if you were some piss-ant working for the owners of these old mines now in utter ruin. Sure, there are a few openings but you have to know where to look and hope to god you don’t fall into some old air shaft leading a couple of thousand feet down. Most are about a couple of hundred or so into utter darkness. Regardless, it’s more than enough to fuck up your whole day if you fell into one. No one would know, no one would find you. Out of the entire history of this area, there has never been made mention of anyone that fell, and saved, or for that matter, ever recovered.

This area, yeah, it’s not for kids and idiot adults to go off this beaten path. Most of the folks, those even from out of state don’t come up here. They don’t visit the old graveyard now overgrown by the woods reclaiming the scarred land. They don’t even know about the wretched ruins of the old Miller’s Place that looks like an old castle made of crumbling stone. Shit, it’s all cordoned off and there are trees, squirrels, ravens, and whatnot that holds residence there. The state was going to restore that some time ago since the Millers were so filthy rich and powerful. They ate up and owned most of the mines eventually. I don’t really know anything more about those kinds of people or the history, which is not all too flattering according to the local historians. Still, that old place, all dilapidated and all, yeah, that’s on my rounds too. I’ll be seeing that soon enough. You see, it sits up along that ridge east of me. One will see it if you keep on walking south along the trail. Comes into view now and then. That is if it isn’t covered by the low clouds, fog, and the likes.

Regardless, no one has any business leaving the trail and heading up there to look around or explore. Never a good outcome.

Skulls

You see, the Northern Black Forest remains shrouded in heavy mist and the kind of darkness that plays upon the weaker minds out here. I mean, just the gloom in the area, and pick whatever season, it don’t matter and it just throws up one hell of an “Unwelcomed” sign to anyone with some wits about them.

Out here miles from nowhere is not for the frail of heart. In fact, you must cultivate a strong mental attitude if you’re out here. People lingering around these parts especially in the winter has one hell of a death wish. You see, they just don’t last long and if these fools are lucky enough maybe by late spring or mid-summer, their mortal remains may be found. But that’s the exception to the rule in these parts. Out here, most of the time, it’s the wildlife, the environment that gets you in the end. And trust me I know all too well.

It’s my job, it’s what I do as sheriff and all.

Do you want to hear something that will raise the small prickly hairs on the back of your goddamned neck?

Last week before all the people from out of state for all the snowboarding fiasco would be showing up, I was out here like I am now. The only thing different is I’m carrying this rifle. I didn’t need anything like this out here before. That in the past. I saw something that gives me more than enough cause to carry such a cannon. Better to be safe than sorry – better to be alive than dead, I say. That is, if you’re carrying special ammunition like I have. I won’t bore you with the details.

Back to the story of my adventure up here from last week…

I guess I was up by Murderer’s Creek along the old Iron bridge, the “Hanging Bridge” aptly named for the executions of some gold miners gone wrong along with some of the other social “Shames,” Interesting name for the despicable who found a noose around their condemned necks. You’ll find all this just south around that bend in front of us.

That bridge and most of the old events are now two full centuries ago and whatever ghost town it later becomes fell to the insurmountable grip of these woods. These very haunted woods. Just before noticing the sun dipping lower across the hills is when I saw the bloody unmistakable tracks of an adult Silverback Werewolf. The tracks left off to the right side of the bridge, breaking through the thin ice as it stomped through the shallow creek to the freshly laid maiden snow on the other side and disappearing into the tree line.

I reached down resting on my feet for a closer examination when I took into the account the size of an animal, a paranormal creature that some professor says doesn’t exist. I put the creature about three hundred plus pounds and nearly seven feet tall by its gate. I suppose some village idiot would think its Bigfoot or some Bullshit like that – I would leave it right at that. No need for anyone really discover the brutal truth otherwise. I took off my heavy glove from my right hand as the frost built up on my beard. With my index finger, I dipped it carefully into the small freezing pool of blood in the right paw print and tasted it. I found my eyes widen as the blood began telling me the story. You see, I have a secret to tell; He is not the only changing out here in these woods.

Adult

And before you go off half-cocked and say something you’ll soon regret, I for one was born this way just like a few of my kind in the region. You might say, “We’re as old as the hills.” You wouldn’t be too far off the mark.

Listen, you’ve been around my kind, my kind are your doctors, your teachers, bartenders, friends, in-laws, and the like to include police and law enforcement. Moreover, I got this problem and it’s bigger than you or I.

The blood I tasted wasn’t his at all. The blood belonged to the victim, a woman that would be found brutally raped while he was still in human form. How do I know this?

The blood never lies…

The blood doesn’t hide anything…

All is revealed through the blood…

I can see through my mind’s eye of what her blood was telling me. I saw that he began to change into his normal self-reaching into her stomach and pulling out her backbone. My ears rang with the snap of her spine. Damn, she was very much alive at the time. The Werewolf barely knew of her and under his false pretenses of being quite the charmer and lover boy. The bastard, he brought her along this otherwise beautiful winter’s day. Oh yeah, a right down gorgeous day all things considering.
Yeah, after he finished with her, sexually, and otherwise, he dumped her remains under the ice of the creek about a mile further up. The blood also shows me his identity in human form and of course, again in his more natural form.

There just isn’t any way I can cover up this hideous crime this time with the people involved. The victim is a resident and much loved in the region. I know the woman killed, her father in which is a good man, and his wife, Betty that I’ve been banging for at least a full decade now. For those of you pretending to hold the higher moral ground, you can hold that against me too. But remember, when you slip, you fall a long ways down and I hope it hurts. Judge if you must, but Betty and I are more than a thing.

Now, this awful news was going to hit the family the hardest. The community will panic as it did before, and even before that as I can remember as for the last full century clearly.

Snowboarders and the like will be flocking to this region and I can’t hide this one. No nothing like the other ones.

I rose up and reaching for my radio, I called it in. I’ll lead my deputies to a haphazard roundabout to the woman’s mangled body. When the dust settles, I’ll square things up with this new idiot stranger in town…

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Giving The Dog A Bone…

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In almost every state in America there are urban legends of phantom cars suddenly appearing and then vanishing. There are actual police video footage of recent years that one can search and easily find. These urban legends of phantom cars go back as early as the making of the first automobile itself.

I first wrote this story just a few days ago as a draft on Facebook. Though, liked by many, I decided to expand both in detail and length as you may read here.

The torrential sheets of rain came down as the asphalt looked more like an oil slick than a rough used surface just when a powerful 1969 SS Chevelle, black on black, and what wasn’t black was chrome suddenly appeared out of darkness. The car, from the glorious days of the American Muscle forever gone, is gleaming in the streetlights as the rain is easily repelled.

All the windows of this intimidating vision to include the front and back which is illegal are so dark it makes it impossible to even see the driver behind the wheel.

The sound of a 396 big block that is nothing less than a perfectly machined balanced engine with an oversized cam gave this car a powerful growl through the twin exhaust out the back under the chrome rear bumper. The crowing jewel of this ominous vehicle is the blower assembly towering over the hood and the powerful engine below.

Anyone that is into cars, especially, the old muscle car days could easily see that nothing was left to chance when this car was built from the ground up with aftermarket and post production modifications going well passed the engine and other obvious changes. The suspension from front to back is highly modified to compensate for the world of high-speed that escaped the minds of Chevrolet. Not missing any details, the SS Cragar chromed rims and matching spinners sporting the very best in street racing tires.

The only sound that is louder of the car’s deep throating rumbling engine is the band known as, AC/DC’s playing the immortal album of 1980, “Back In Black” and how fitting adding to the dark ambiance of the weather. The song, “Giving The Dog A Bone” blaring through a very expensive sound system and a couple of Bass Cannons in the trunk for good measure.

The light turns green and the car rumbles off slowly since it owns an otherwise empty street.

Who would be out in this weather?

Who would be out this late at night?

Is this car, the driver spoiling for some kind of confrontation, or perhaps, a race?

The car begins to pick up some speed just by a mere crack of the throttle as the car goes from 35 miles per hour to 75 in just a couple of seconds hitting the on-ramp leading to north on Interstate 5.

Still, there is no traffic to speak of as the car hits 90 without breaking a sweat in doing so. Medford lies beneath the huge overpass as the car is nearly a blur in the rain creating its own turbulence coiling behind leading to a rooster tail of water it kicks up that would make it impossible to even see the license plate or the shape of the vehicle from someone, anyone behind the car.

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There is no other vehicle on either the northbound or southbound lanes as far at the eye can see on this overpass. Though, the driver of this magnificent beast seems to know something that the simple observer cannot fathom to hazard a guess.

Like a menacing ghost, the car passes the Crater Lake Highway exchange heading northbound. The car hits over 100 miles per hour as it leaves the rainstorm giving way to a much dryer surface as the driver engages the blower causing the beast of the SS Chevelle to raise its front wheels barely off the ground and howling like a demon under the lash.

Now well over 140 miles per hour, the black monster of mechanical rage passes a semi tractor-trailer and in less than 100 yards in front of the semi in the slow lane is an Oregon State Patrol car like that of the truck before seemed to be standing still in comparison. The driver of the SS Chevelle didn’t even bother to slow down at all.

The vehicle blaring the title song “Back In Black” as the red and blues from the Highway Patrol’s Dodge Charger Hellcat now giving chase as the SS Chevelle seemed to slow down just enough so that the State Patrolman could catch up a bit before the dark specter of the car would begin to leave Mopar’s best in the wake.

Now at 160 miles per hour, the state police car can’t keep up requesting assistance as the officer watched the car go beyond his view as a helicopter belonging to the Oregon State Patrol whizzed over the screaming flashing lights of the wailing Dodge Charger and heading up to the SS Chevelle.

The copter gaining slowly on the SS Chevelle begins closing in enough as the pilot and co-pilot realizing that the chopper is practically at its top end speed by the control panel lighting up with warnings.

The chopper’s high-powered headlamp catches the license plate, make and model with the haunting plate of “Satan 666” on the Oregon Plate, customized, of course, in the fleeting glimpse. The car is seemingly toying with the helicopter only for a few moments longer before it leaves the gaping mouths in the cockpit behind at just over 200 miles per hour. The helicopter pulls back, it cannot keep up as, “Have A Drink On Me” is playing.

Traffic on the State Patrol’s radio is becoming heavier as more cars far ahead set up an ambush. Already, this car managed to outrun two failed attempts by the Jackson County Sherriff’s Office in coordination with the Oregon State Police. The car just passed up these locations before the authorities could accomplish their plans.

The across the unrelenting State Trooper’s radio, Dispatch reads back the information obtained by the previous helicopter. The information from dispatch comes breaking through, “The car, a 1969 SS Chevelle, Oregon Plates, ‘Satan 666’ was registered to a James David Taylor of 1151 Justice Road, Central Point, Oregon.”

The officer in the black dodge radioed back, “I’m sticking with it, dispatch. Shit, it must be in Grants Pass by now. It can’t travel at that rate of speed forever and who is the car registered to again?”

The cruiser traveling at 165 miles per hour close of redlining his own engine and weary not to do so. Already the engine temperature is hitting the dangerous level of overheating.

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Dispatch answers back. “The owner has been dead for nearly three decades ago. The car shows no new owner since the car was destroyed on Highway 101 near Coos Bay back in 1981.”

“No how in the hell do you know all of this, dispatch?” The officer nearly yelling back over the top of his winding engine.

“Because, that car, make and model, and license plate belonged to my brother. That’s how I know. And I know something else too, Roseburg police and two state police officers are waiting for a car that will never come to them. You’ll see…” That’s all dispatched said in her nervously frighten voice.

The small prickling hairs on the back of the state patrolmen’s neck stood up as he was closing in on Grants Pass just a few miles south of Roseburg. As the dark, Dodge Charger passed over the town below. The State Trooper, he could see the black SS Chevelle just fade into the whirling foggy mist.

“Thought so…” The Officer said with a grimacing smile.

“Can’t keep going at those speeds in this weather. Now, you’re all fucking mine, asshole!”

The officer slowed his car down extremely quick to avoid hitting the SS Chevelle somewhere in front of him in this blinding fog. In moments later the Trooper’s car made it safely through the other side of the foggy mist. To the Trooper’s amazement, there were only red and blues flashing and coming to him in the opposing direction from the north. He quickly scanned the entire horizon of his windshield and could not see the enigmatic car, the 1969 SS Chevelle.

Then the Trooper stopped his vehicle in the northbound lane and opened up his door to step out with his flashlight as the others were safely coming upon him. It is now almost dawn. With all the lights, hazard lamps and the red and blue lights lit up the entire area right around the Trooper as he even walked to the shoulder of the road thinking that the car in pursuit went off into the dark woods below. There is no sign of anything that would give him a logical explanation as the whereabouts of this mysterious car.

The Trooper glanced back at the fog but it was gone as it appeared simply out of nowhere. His eyes widen at the suddenness of it all. His mind is telling him, ‘Fucking cars just don’t disappear into thin air.’

As the mist and heavy fog vanished like a hand over all them below, the Trooper could see it was not some natural form of fog as he could see the stars above him under a clear night’s sky. There are no other patches of fog anywhere in his sight.

The Trooper scurried behind his car where the fog and mist would have been moments earlier. The pavement completely dry and void of any skid marks leading to heavy breaking or a loss of control. There was nothing but blank dry asphalt.

A combination of adrenaline of a high-speed chase and the ever-growing distinction of chasing a phantom car gave him more than enough cause for his uncontrollable trembling.

‘This isn’t happening. there’s got to be some explanation?’ he thought to himself as he turned to face the slow-moving police cars approaching. The Trooper headed back to his car so he could be safely seen by the oncoming police traffic.

There, somewhere in the slight breeze, the officer standing there could barely hear the chilling bells from, “Hells Bells” from that very same album but could not place the direction and the source only as the sound faded away leaving him totally alone just before others would join in his bewilderment in a few more seconds as the horizon in the east is turning from black to a beautiful dark blue.

A single helicopter is now heard off in the distance surveying the entire area and reporting nothing in sight as the pilot’s voice cracks across the Trooper’s radio.

By now all the other local and state police came up to the Trooper’s car, they all shared in the same puzzling and perplexing look. The inside camera of one of the Oregon State Trooper’s showed only one set of headlights leaving the mist and fog belonging to the northbound Trooper who gave an unrelenting chase. There as they all shared their videos, all showing the very same thing; an otherwise empty northbound dual lane with only one car breaking through the vanishing fog as if a large invisible hand pulled it straight up and out of sight ever so quickly.

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The Trooper understandably mystified as others around him were as well. Some of the officers heard the winding powerful engine coming to them off in the distance, and like the fog and mist, the sound suddenly faded away as if that patch of fog and mist that not only concealed the phantom car, but in some way, took the car with it.

“It’s like we all were waiting for a ghost that never came.” One of the Grants Pass policeman said as all eyes turned to the veteran sergeant as he himself looked southbound.

“I heard of a yarn when I was a child living in Coos Bay about a hellish accident along the coast of an illegal street race. No one survived. Two cars, a 1969 SS Chevelle and a 1969 Shelby GT 500 Mustang…” All remained quiet as the stone granite faced policeman continued.

“I didn’t want to believe it. My dad was acting Sheriff there and was one of the first to be at the fatal scene. Then about a year to the day, the SS Chevelle would show up. People would speak of seeing it creeping… Prowling through town. No one ever mentioned seeing the driver because the sighting was always at night and you can’t see shit through the dark tinted windows. Shit, I don’t think we were ever meant to see through it all anyhow.”

“So you believe in this phantom car legend, then?” Another Trooper asked the local cop standing there in a half-circle around the Trooper’s car.

“Gentlemen, you have heard what you heard. For others, you’ve seen what you’ve seen and captured both on the various car and copter videos. With that, I leave you up to drawing your own conclusions but, I will say there is an afterlife, and a world beyond this one. Nevertheless, this phantom, this specter of a car has been seen as far east as Bend, and as far north as Portland, let alone the entire length of Highway 101 along our coast.” The officer then got into his car leaving everyone else still standing in awe under a cloud of more questions than answers as the sergeant drove quietly back to town.

The next day there wasn’t any mention in the Medford Mail Tribune of the Highway Patrol’s car chase or any mention of the phantom SS Chevelle oddly enough. Everyone involved were sworn to secrecy. Besides, who would possibly believe them?

It would later be a plain fact that all who were involved in this chase this evening would ever see that phantasm of a car again…


 

For my brother, James David Taylor

July 16, 1965 – June 7, 1986, RIP

LAY
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